


Groupie Love

by buckybarnesplumwhore



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: DO NOT REPOST MY WORKS, F/M, Rockstar AU, smut and a smidge of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28838937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybarnesplumwhore/pseuds/buckybarnesplumwhore
Summary: Brooklyn's best underground rockstar only has heart eyes for you.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Groupie Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is a black fem reader insert fic. do not repost my works, nor translate. You will be reported.  
> my tumblr: buckybarnesplumwhore

City lights smear in your vision, your glassy hues twinkles like moon-beams. The chilling air wisps against your ample cheeks; nimble fingers tugging the fluffy leopard jacket against your chest. A sigh of breath lightly vapors from your parted lips, Boeras’ icy breath bellowing, and suffocating the metropolitan jungle; an early indicator that winter is looming near.

Wedge heels clanking against the concrete — periwinkle toes curling a bit from the nipping air — weaving within the municipal cadence of bustling traffic, and passing chattering bar-hopping locals. Your nose twitches a bit from offending odors from nearby openings of sewage, but ever so grateful that it disappears as fast it comes. A blissful moan vibrates in your throat, as a nice gust of wind flows through your massive wild curls, the breeze dances a feathery ballet against your scalp. One block away now, kindred to a siren call, excitement blooms in your chest.

Heart beating rapidly against your cavity, familiar steel crystalline hues appear behind your fluttering lids. Gnawing on your bottom lip, your knees are close to buckling — half a block now. The show tonight was amazing as always — he was amazing. A show-stopper, a born star. A sharp jawline, smoldering steel hues, sculpted nose, chestnut tresses and stubble that burns ever so deliciously against your thighs. Those dangerous fingers that strum flawlessly on his guitar — the very ones that pistol in you as if you were his own crafted instrument. Playing you like a fucking fiddle.

A molded God that makes all women and men swoon off their feet with his golden throat. Unlike any other night, you bolt out the venue on stumbling feet. Needing a breather from your intensifying emotions, almost puking your guts in the alley-way. It feels foreign. How you had felt yourself fall deeper into a pit as he sang — he sang as if he was only serenading you. Realization hit you like a freight train. How sweetly he spoke into the mic, before his dizzying song, _‘This is for a special girl in my life.’_

Witnessing Brooklyn’s finest rockstar perform is akin to a prophet preaching the holy truth. The masses clinging onto every hymn, swaying to the sanctified melodic of a leader, that indescribable wash of emotion of easily this one being can sing your entire life. Leaving you withering and exposed like a nerve.

Ever fucked a God? Able to break down that divine entity with just the power between your thighs? On his knees extinguishing the fire on your legs with his wet tongue? Crawling for as if he worships you, his palms softly kneading your sepia skin. His hips — fuck, his sculpted hips crash with a purpose, hitting every inch beautifully. His name falls from your lips like a prayer. Shedding your skin, transforming into the reincarnation of Joan of Arc being blessed as an venerated angel descends upon you, bestowing his seed into your yearning womb. Is this what she felt? Deliriously overjoyed? To be the chosen one. Out of all the devoted zealots, he chose you from the crowd. Crystal-gazing into these magnetic oceanic eyes as you watch him fall apart by your touch, as he cums, a halo illuminates around his sweaty crown.

Enthralled in deep thought, breaking through the hazy mist, you find yourself standing just a feet away from your destination. Feet planted still as if roots grew from the soles clean through the concrete barrier, dry throat gulping harshly.

_Howlies’._

The bottle green sign hangs high – carved wooden lettering aging, yet boldly stays — bolted above the bar’s entrance, right above the door. It’s a commune, a tiny haven that is sought out at night by misfits of Brooklyn. The front-door was painted in dingy murky brown that’s chipping with time, littered with hundreds of band stickers that have become traditional decor — symbols of badges; and it would be obscene for it to be stripped clean. The ornaments bestowed from devotited patrons travel upon the wall that is structured around a window, it oddly reminds you of an obscure map. Not one for a clear and precise visual but it speaks in volumes that one doesn’t need to verbalize.

For a fleeting second, you chastise yourself for thinking too deeply over some aging stickers, or maybe it’s just a glimpse of a language of the oppidon nor’dewels who live by the rock scene – that you grew to learn and speak so fluently.

Owned by George Barnes, the very man who has fathered the God you ever so love; named after the Vietnam veteran’s elite combat team and then soon it’s namesake used for son’s band in loving tribute. It’s alias runs deeper, for Barnes junior went to the military: packaged and shipped off by Uncle Sam.

But alas, he came back battered and bruised — the light in his eyes snuffed, and mind riddled with demons.

Like father, like son.

You can already hear the muffled chorus of laughter from his friends, most likely huddled together drinking and goofing off. The dingy door swings open, with a slim tall man hunched over, trying to ignite a flame for the cigarette dangling between his lips. As the door swings to close, the wind wafts a scent of liquor that kicks your scenes into hard-drive — almost pushing your feet to walk backwards. A tiny voice in the back of your head, whispering to you ‘Just leave. There’s other bars in the city filled with musicians, you know. You don’t need him to have a good time.’

The supple telltale of his leather jacket stretches with his flexing biceps, as he whisks out a lighter from his back jean pocket. The metal rings that adorn his slender fingers wink like strickening fulgurites that he snatched from the nine-realms and now possesses upon his witchy fingers. A smirk curls at your mouth — you recognize the perfect sculpted nose, and that jawline. He twirls around, making his way towards you — piercing green eyes gaze at you from your toes to face.

“Well, is it my little petal.” The sultry British accent is like velvet to your ears. He waltzes to you with a gentle stride, away from the plain view of the bar’s window — away from peering eyes. You smile widely now, “Loki, I’ve missed you.” Your voice rising to a higher-pitch, always becoming a bit shy around the man. Despite no longer spending hot long nights together, Loki has always remained a loyal friend. Putting the façade of a tempestuous wild cat aside, your eyes hooded gracefully, spidery lashes flutter. Only with this man have seen your sweetest side.

His raven hair loosely falls, and kisses his eyes. On instinct, your nimble fingers curl the hair behind his ear, caressing the path down to this smooth neck; the pad of your thumb rubs his pulse point, Loki mewls low in his throat. He gingerly takes the smoke from his lips, props it against the small crook of his ear, and tucks his zippo back into his denim pocket. He intently observes your curvaceous body, always undressing you with his emerald daggers. “I always miss you.” Loki’s open right palm cups the nape of your neck, pulling you in for a sweet lingering kiss to the forehead. “You seem radiant as ever.” He spoke in a breathy whisper against your hairline, as the crisp sensation of his rings sent shivers down the curve of your spine, with his other arm shamelessly wrapping around your waist. Embracing his warmth, you ensnare your arms tightly around his torso.

The aroma of mint and thick leather floods your nostrils, as he cradles your head. “As do you.” You kiss his chest, rubbing your cheek against his toned body; the cotton fabric radiating his warmth that felt pacifying against your cheek. It wasn’t arousal — it was just sweet attachment.

Loki Laufeyson, the youngest of the Odinson bunch, or the ‘adopted runt’ of the litter cited by his father’s cynical words. Bassist, and lyricist for the pagan metal band, Son Of God which consisted of Loki, and his eldest siblings, Hela and Thor. His sister, Hela, a spit-fire, is on lead vocals, and lead guitar; and his brother Thor, a teddy bear himbo, is a raving beast on drums. How he batters onto those drums is a pure salute to an ancient Viking on ritualistic war drums.

Not only does Loki play bass, but he provides back vocals as well — that blends his harmonies with his sister that melts like butter to the ears. Numerous songs with just him singing, earning him rightfully the name ‘Silver Tongue’; not only for his velvety voice but for his sharp flirtatious wit.

Originating from Norway, the family migrated to the States, creating a home in New York. Keeping their ancestry alive through their music, along with channeling their childhood trauma with harsh vocals, a reliance of folk instrumentation, anthemic choruses, Norse mythology and paganism woven in their lyrics. “Your pet is stewing in there. He didn’t see you after the show.” Loki stifles a laugh, his warm breath tickles you. You moan with a hooded lids, akin to Marge Simson’s famous exasperation, Loki chuckles scratching your skull, your head bobbles against his fingers like a pup.

You hum, with a playful arch of the brow, “He’s not my pet.” You huff, not daring to look Loki in the eye, but he knows you all too well. He could see beyond your bluff — how you want to smack the cocky grin of his face. With a waggish finger, Loki snickers, “Oh petal, don’t forget I know you like the back of my hand. We may not spend nights together anymore, but I know your heart.” His thumb caresses your cheek, it wasn’t a seductive move, it was an intimate touch as in a friend.

You met Loki at the shy age of eighteen, about five years ago. It was your first time venturing out in the city, on your own. It was on the cusp of your journey of seeking independence, relishing in rebellion. An impulsive purchase of an underground metal band you discovered on Bandcamp.

Tipsy on vodka from the venue’s bar, the ale and a couple of girls you befriended that night lenting a kiss of courage to wait at the backdoor exit. Your new girlfriends are aspiring astrophysicist and geneticist, Jane Foster and Helen Cho. Top honor students from prestigious universities visiting the city for a good time, taking a breather from the hectic studies.

A night flooded with booze, coke, and sex —- the Odinsons are notorious for their sex escapades, and open relationships. Thor was very keen on one of your new friends, Jane – dubbing her _Fancy Pants_ for her intelligence. As well as his girlfriend, the lead singer of the all female alt-rock band, Valkyries. Brunnhilde — or how Thor affectionately calls her _‘Booze Hag’_ due to her being able to drink any man under the table — was taking body shots off of Jane and yourself who was shamelessly caressing your hips.

Nicknames are a form of affection for the Odinsons.

Hela took a huge liking to Helen, heavily flirting and dissecting her brain with questions on genetic science and quickly retired the night with her following a harmony of wolf whistles. To this day, Hela and Helen still see each other. How special you felt to lose your virtue to Silver Tongue himself. A magical night, you felt like Cinderella. He even wrote a ballad for you, describing you as an angel that should be worshiped in the holiest of altars.

Like every girl who grew up with their first loves being infamous rockstars, seeking comfort and affection from musicians became a way of life. The history between yourself and Loki is familiar and tender yet fiery. Unlike wannabe rockstars in the city who seek a good fuck, and half-assed goodbye with a nameless girl, Loki treated you with respect. A rare breed — you learned the hard way over the years; of heart-wrenching pain. Loosing yourself in the whirlwind of sex misinterpiting it as love, you learned to toughen your skin.

As history repeats itself — you’ve fallen hard like many women before you. Used and thrown away like yesterday’s trash. A manhandled muse, your cartilage torn at the seems. Tears shedded like waterfalls, with your heart cracking and deteriorating in your palms — for the one who shall not be named.

Be the player, not the chump.

You playfully roll your eyes, trying to bite back a sheen of tears at the rims, a dry chuckle, “Loki, please.” A watery sigh, as your head tilts backwards, staring up at the inky sky. “James —” Loki says his name carefully, as if he spoke too fast it would stab you like a rusty dagger. “—He loves you.” Loki tilts his head coyly, as you snap your head up; your curls springing with a bounce. “Stop lying, Loki.” You sputter over your words, ignoring how your heart beats rapidly at the idea of Bucky loving you back. “It’s just fucking, nothing more, and nothing less.” Loki clicks his tongue, murmuring under his breath ‘petal’, as if reprimanding a child.

“I know from experience that it’s easy to fall for you. I can see it in his eyes — like a love sick pup.” Despite the cool air, heat flush to your cheeks, matching the pinkish shade of your button nose. “Are you saying I stole your heart, Silver Tongue?” You flash a toothy grin, puckering your bee-stung lips – deflecting. “I am not ashamed to admit that. To this day, I never met a woman like you. So don’t be ashamed to admit how you feel. You glow whenever you’re near him.” Loki spoke with conviction, leaving no room for further argument. “He’s not like Broc…” Loki halt his words, gaping a bit, even to this day hearing the name feels like grating razors in your ears.

“I know.” You gingerly close your eyes shut, sniffling. Loki bows his head once more to kiss your forehead, pecking little kisses along your hairline. “Stay strong, petal.” With a final kiss to the tip of your chilled nose, he coos a sweet goodbye. As he leaves, you can feel his warm essence dwindling slowly from your body as it flows away with the wind, but graced with his scent still lingering on your fabric.

Inhaling a big breath, you softly roll your shoulders back with an agile ease, as if you were shifting into the stitched skin-coat of a femme fatale. Kindred to natural instinct, you snuff the brewing emotions that try to strangle your spirit.

\--

Howlies’ ensnares you in its warmth from the installed heaters, the moment you open the door — a gust of heat sneaking inside within the stitched cotton of your sleeves; tickling you, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Akin to a distant emotion inkling from a faded memory — a familiar solace. The redolence of hefty booze that is only aromatic to the likes of you, the establishment is swathed in a low-dim flourish; lit by only carmine lights hung upon the ceiling. To give off a relaxing environment, to wind down with a cold stiff one.

The bar wasn’t as lively as usual, but it gives you some relief — a crowd would have provoked more fueling anxiety. Shuffling your weight from one foot to the other, you fix the mask of façade, and laxen your muscles into a graceful prose. Cooly catching a glimpse of the nearby booths, bold red leather seats in the nearby far corner, deep in the roots of the bar — where a certain God, and a few of his scattered apostles reside. You can hear snippets of shared conversations, everyone bouncing off each other from one booth to the other; discussing the idea of a rock-themed Christmas party, dressing up as famous musicians. You giggle as you can hear Sam Wilson — one of Howlies’ guitarists and close friends — proudly puff out his chest when asked who he’ll be for the party.

“Easy, Jimi Hendrix — no question.”

In all his glory, his chestnut tresses curtain his smoldering face, how delicately strands kiss his lashes, his sculpted biceps that bulge against his black v-shirt — a sleeve of tattoos, his marvelous thick fingers adorned with silver rings that twinkles in the dewey lights. Gold and onyx metal shimmers in the light, trying to conceal tucked against his side — under the gilded tomb of a god, there’s a hidden cadaver of a shy boy. Thick thighs clad in denim jeans. Pouty pink lips, and his beard that was yearning for your fingers — and inner thighs. How the infamous snake tattoo reaches near his neck, how you desperately wanted to slowly trace the intricate serpent by the tongue, and suckle his pulse point.

“ _Well, well, well_ — look who’s finally here.” A serenading Sovokian timbre perks up, dewey sinopia lips twitch into a curling smirk. Alerting all her companions seated together — all eyes zeroing. One particular head twists in your direction hastily, overhearing his friends clambering on; stormy oculus — pleaing — ever so desperately seeking you out.

“I told ya’ll she’ll come by.” Wanda muses in a whisper, sneaking her teasing eyes at him. Nudging herself back into the comfort of her boyfriend, Vision —- Howlies’ manager — making herself home in the crock of his arm. Vision chuckled under his breath, as his knuckles perched his frames up the bridge of his nose, as he twirls her chocolate curls around his fore-finger, the rest of his fingers caressing against the skin of her shoulder.

“Thank God — I don’t know how much more of his sulking I can take.” Sam jabs with a chuckle, with his unlit cigarette perked between his canines; he perks his peering head over the edge of the booth. “Knock it off, Sammy. He’s in love.” A nudge at his rib by the elbow, as hooded lids flutter back at Sam, he muses with a hum, and puckering lips. “ _Oh_ – I definitely know how it feels.” Perching a sweet kiss upon his fiance, Sharon, pulling her in more of his hold, wrapping his arm around her securely —- as Wanda and Vision playfully gags' in disgust. Showcasing his profile, snickering lowly over his shoulder. Sam’s eyes glance over to his friend, who was hunched over, seated at the far end in his booth, gawking at you — just ignoring the teasing.

Chuckles bounce around, clearly amused by the pulsating heart eyes of one broody Bucky Barnes. Ruffling your curls by the fingers, you sneak a glom at a particular grump stewing; stifling a belly-laugh by pruning your lips shut. Men — how childish they can be. Bunch of mopey babies.

Silhouette legs waltz a bee-line to the bar, perching yourself on a sturdy stool. Close by, but a good distance. That’s his world, his friends — who are you to intrude? His life isn’t yours. Who are you to try to be a part of it — when you can be so easily replaced? So disposable? Just a good lay, a warm body. Pursing your lips, and an arch of the brow as you can feel familiar hues burning holes in your skull — you don’t chase. If he wants you so badly, he’ll come get ya’.

Over on the other side, was the God’s loyal right-hand, Howlie’s guitarist, and life-long companion, Steve Rogers. Next to him was Howlies’ back vocalist, and bassist — a spit-fire with flaming locks to match, and Howlies’ drummer dirty-blonde deaf misfit — your God’s foster sister, Natasha Romanoff, and her boyfriend Clint Barton. And finally, peering over his shoulder was Bucky Barnes — not daring to take his eyes off of you.

“Clint said _‘you might as well take a picture with all that staring.’_ And Bucky — don’t slouch,” Natasha tsks, with a curling smirk. Bucky pouts, as his back bounces with a huff, “I’m not slouching.” As he still keeps his eyes on you, not once looking back at Natasha. “Yes, you are, your shoulders are slumped. You’re gonna get a back hunch.” Nat teases him, but underneath that mask of sibling teasing was worry. Worrisome for Bucky falling so hard, with the possibility that he can burn, and crash — right in the dark pits of sorrow, just like before.

Sworn on loyalty, Natasha isn’t afraid to send you off with a boot to your ass — you know this very well, and hold no hurt feelings, you understood. There’s isn’t animosity between you both, but there’s not even a speck of friendship formed — just a truce for the sake of Bucky.

One time, you impressed Natasha with a party-trick and how you drank raw vodka — it was a party at Steve’s, one that Bucky dragged you to, happily having you stuck to his hip; which you secretly loved, how he paraded you around like you were his girl. The party trick was you securely holding two beer bottles one palm, and with a good amount of pressure from your boot heel, the bottle caps popped.

Natasha isn’t a hateful woman, but rather protective of her family. Having lost her first foster family back at her home-country, then being adopted and flown away from Russia to the states where she found a second chance to become somebody. Bonded not by birth but love — sometimes water is thicker than blood.

“Listen to Nat, Buck. Up, up, up.” Steve snickers, poking his best friend’s shoulder. Bucky twists his head around momentarily with a narrowing scowl, “That’s enough — all of you.” A bite with no bark. Clint snickers under his breath, withholding a smirk, he playfully signs hastily, _‘Don’t be mad at me —’_ Clint shrugs, with his palms extending out, his fingers curling into his lax fists _‘—hunchback’_ fastly and dramatically hunching his back for emphasis, his shoulders close to his ears.

All three burst into laughs as Bucky sucks his teeth, averting his sneaky eyes back to you. It was very subtle, he wasn’t gawking obviously as a creeper, but blue gems wink over his shoulder blade. You were nursing a beer, the tip of your finger tracing around the rim of the bottle — seated with your ankle curled around the other. The air thickens with intensifying sparks, as this provocative standoff resumes. From the corner of your eye, you snuck a glance at Bucky as your plump lips muses into a smirk.

A wicked grin curls, Bucky knows exactly what you’re doing. He won’t cave in — no matter how much he yearns for you. To just stomp over to you, and ravish you right there at the bar — showing the whole world who you belong to. He won’t cave in — no matter how much his heart skips a beat whenever he sees your beautiful face, his hands shaking and itching to feel your smooth skin under his fingertips. He just wants you to hug him, inhale your sweet scent of cocoa butter and wrapped tightly in your arms — god, he’s a slut for your hugs.

He won’t cave in — no matter how your voice lulls him to a peaceful slumber, easily serenading his demons. He won’t cave in — despite how you can read what’s on his mind, how you both can fall into deep conversations. Bucky wanted to yell, clinging to the coat-tails of his aching heart — why weren’t you there, waiting for him after the show? He needed to see you.

Goddammit, he won’t cave in.

“Oh — here we go.” Glossy lips grin, a teasingly roll of the eyes. “These two love-birds think we don’t know their little game.” Gold twinkles under the dewey lights, a high-tech prosthetic stretches for her beer; the trickle of condensation slips down the slope of the bottle over the metal fore-finger. Misty Knight and Colleen Wing. Wanda muffles her giggles by the cup of her palm, as she eavesdrops.

“Misty, what are ya’ talking about?” Rosy cheeks bloom due to her cup of spirits, a goofy pink grin forms. Colleen cocks her head, looks onto her best friend — more appraised as a bonded sister. Lashes flutter from tipsiness, Misty sweetly flicks Colleen’s chin with her curled flesh finger. Daughters of the Dragon, what was originally a sarcastic moniker morphed into a signature name. Misty Knight, and Colleen Wing; a notorious duo.

A retired NYPD officer, Misty’s now reformed bouncer for the lesbian club Black Pussycat from the Village, and indie musician; with Colleen as her loyal companion in all fields. Before Colleen, Misty’s old partner as a bouncer was Thor, who was lovingly nicknamed by the local community as the ‘Defender of Lesbians’.

“You don’t know, Colleen?” Wanda twirls around, her boyfriend, and her friends busy conversing, Wanda easily distanced herself; facing two of her friends who were still dewy with sweat from the show earlier — Daughters of the Dragon opened for the Howlies tonight at the Manhattan’s most established venue: Starks.

And now a more entertaining show is unfolding before their eyes.

“No.” Colleen drags her voice coyly, her eyelids hooded. Misty and Wanda turned to each other, a knowing glance, a wordless conversation.

Wanda sneakily slides out of her seat, quickly joining the booth. A quick gesture of her finger and nod at Bucky and yourself, “Act One: She’ll pretend he doesn’t exist. It’s a form of power exchange, it’s one of the most erotic of foreplays — if done right. No awkward smirks, or uncertain glances.” Wanda purrs, fluttering her lashes as her head tilts gracefully on Colleen’s shoulder with a swoonful sigh — a flair of dramatics, making Colleen and Misty flush like school girls.

Out of all Bucky’s friends, Wanda was the first one you bonded with; it was just natural. “Like a cat and mouse game. Who’ll cave in first? Playing pretend when you know how that one person can make you feel.” Baring the raw truth, the salacious history between Bucky, and yourself was no secret. Among the close circle, groupies are welcomed warmly, and you’re not the first. Howlies’ are known to spread love — with men and women.

That’s how Wanda met Vision, and how Sharon met Sam.

“Act Two: He’ll pretend he isn’t bothered. As if he doesn’t care about her at all. The hot-shot who can get all the girls. But he goes right for her. It’s only her.” Everyone knows, it’s no longer a secret between Bucky and yourself. It’s love, but both too stubborn to admit it — being nicknamed as ‘hard-headed dipshits.’

All his friends are so happy Bucky found love again — for years, he was a shell of a man. Heartbroken for years, the culprit being his last ex-girlfriend Dolores — who he affectionately nicknamed Dot. It was a bitter break-up, a classic case of a gold-digger out for money, and attention. But you? You were different, the chemistry between you two was immeasurable — you made Bucky glow, there’s a step to his walk again, he genuinely smiled, and laughed more, happier; and Sam stated once, ‘Bucko got his mojo back’ referring to his song-writing.

“ _Oh_ —” An airy gasp escapes Wanda, her head bobs back, biting her lip trying to restrain a giddy grin. Misty and Colleen muffling their snickers by their fingers. What a sight, without fail — it ends the same every-time. “And Act Three: The final act. It goes according to her plan, just the way she mapped it. He’s wrapped tightly around her finger.” Wanda flares her wrist in the air.

Wordlessly, all eyes sneak a look to see Bucky cooly walk over to you, taking his rightful seat next to you. A hand hovers over the booth, Sam gesturing to Steve, who instantly slaps it with a crooked smile, not even wavering his focus away from Bucky. As in saying _‘called it.’_

By now, it couldn’t be concealed — Bucky’s infamous sly smirk has now spilt into a goofy love-sick smile stretching from ear to ear, his resolve easily dismantling, and crumbling. His eyes beaming lovingly, melting under your gaze.

“ _Jesus_ — she’ll eat him alive.”

Goddamnit — he caved.

\--

The moon draws silver lines across the flooring, piercing through the syrupy vermilion flourish — illuminating the fireglow of melting bodies molding into one. Electricity pulses beneath skin, hot skin that glows with a rich sheen. Airy moans filter through the air, intermixing with the lulling melody of Deftones playing on the vintage record player.

It’s intoxicating — parted swollen lips hover each other, inhaling and swallowing the other’s moans, as if either one was the other’s only source of existence. Slow but sharp thrusts — unyielding, as his weight pins you against the mattress. Feel him, and only him. Long, limber legs entangled, skin to skin, forehead to forehead, burgundy nails digging into his sculpted back, earning a throaty growl — marking one’s territory. Legs shivering under his sculpted thighs, carved and worthy to be worshipped by the gods.

Is this heaven? Drifting within the clouds of bliss, soft — fuck, he feels so soft. Slow — _oh_ — ever so slow, every thrust is meaningful. To nudge over the edge, guts clutching with the coil tightening by the pinching fingers of ecstasy. The melody of slick shamelessly echoing, sapphire eyes watery, knees melting; your cunt is his favorite home. Safe, warm and inviting — he can curl up, and rest for the rest of his days.

His balls tighten just a bit as it hits your ass. “Baby, look at you —” his sly, silver hues twinkle, you found it so adorable how he tries to be the cocky one, to be in charge, when you’re breaking him apart by milking his cock. _Clench_. “—Fuck,” his low husky voice cracks, he’s close. A cheeky lipstick smeared grin flashes at him, he lazily nips at your chin playfully. He’s so beautiful like this. His face scrunching in bliss, with droplets wet on his lashes. His biceps tightening, as he cages you in his arms.

He’s perfect. Tongue heavy, three little words desperately beating against the cages of your canines — instead you nibble on his shoulder to snuff it out. You’re close, too.

Fingers tread over the smooth metallic prosthetic, traveling to the healed wound, where metal meets flesh — stroking the healed puffy pink scar. Your lips that was latched on his shoulder blade, your tongue trailing the ridges, sloppy open-mouthed kisses — Bucky’s moans become high-pitched, his chin wobbles. It’s too much, silver hot tingles zap from your wet tongue.

“Let me see.” You spoke in a hush, Bucky’s thrusts ceased a bit, “Please, let me see you,” you beg. Your arm cradles under the prosthetic. His chest wheezes, you maneuver your face, hinting for him to look at you; his eyes are everywhere but at you. Wide with fear, and self-loathing; it’s the first time you get to see him without it. Completely bare. “It’s okay.” You flick your nose against his, urging him to look at you. Shushing him to relax, you easily detached the artificial limb, an airy gasp leaves Bucky’s gaped mouth as his nerves relish in a breather.

With care, you place it beside you both. Bucky freezes, no longer thrusting, his erected cock seated inside you. You take a moment to observe the smooth amputation, Bucky hides his face, but you stop him by kissing his shoulder. “You’re beautiful.” You murmur, as you kiss the stub. Bucky almost heaves a sob, how you easily accept him — his love runs deeper, soaring through his body. In all his glory, you devour his sculpted vision — resembling a fractured Greek marble. Even broken, he’s breathtaking.

With his flesh arm cradles your head, engulfing you, as you leave a trail of kisses from his stub to his pulse point, to his jaw now his lips. Bucky’s hips snap against yours, passionate kisses mixed with salvia. The twilight falls, twinkling akin to shooting stars — falling from the clouds to a belly-sinking orgasm that even the angels wept. Choppy moans swell louder, uneven thrusts pistoling inside you. Bodies throttling, the headboard erratically banging against the wall pavement, sloppy kisses wet, and yearning. Screaming into each other’s lips, warm tongues dancing — howls of pleasure.

_**You enter slowly. You know my room. You crawl your knees off. And then you shake my tomb.** _

Lyrics fade out, and static fizzes into euphoric silence.

\---

Fingertips trace the terrain of his chest, as Bucky mewls sweetly — preening under your featherly touch. Open-palm rubs, as your ankles play footsies under the blanket. Hooded eyes flutter open and close, from the heat, his tongue slowly licks his lip — tasting your nectar that seals itself to memory and skin; from between your pretty thighs, where you love to see him bow, exactly where he loves to be.

His knuckles caress the curve of your spine, tickling the skin — always needing to touch you. Cuddled in his arm, as you try to enjoy the comfortable silence, there was this nagging voice, This is too much. Too intimate.

_But hasn’t it always been?_

Practically a year now of dating, it has begun to feel so much more — fleshing out to what perceives as a relationship. Once was fun nights of bar-hopping, and great no-strings attached fucking, now is heavy with bashful pillow-talk, and tender-hearted sex. And it felt natural, so natural that you didn’t realize how hard you fell for Bucky till it was too late — it felt like whiplash, it made your head spin; now you can’t let him go. You’ve tried to envision a life without him, and you nearly vomit every-time.

“Thank you … for the song.” Cheek squished against his chest, your eye twitching from an impending tear, as you try to find your voice, “It was beautiful.” A raspy whisper. Bucky’s arm tightens around you, his heart beams, it was heavy on his mind to ask you why you didn’t wait for him. But he didn’t want to be seen as overbearing.

“Anything for you.” It was barely a whisper, but you caught it — like a faint wind against your ears. Bucky shifted a bit, turning on his side, but never relenting his hold on you — facing you, tracing your jawline with the wisp of his fingers by his arm laxly around your curled dome. Encased in his warmth, Bucky was just engrossed in your beauty.

“Tell me something.” A tiny goofy smile. “What would you like to hear?” You bashfully smiled, twirling his chestnut ends around your finger. “Anything that is about you.” A shy whisper. Laxly, your teeth scraps your lip, as you try to bite back tears — jesus, what is it about post-coitus that gets you so emotional with him?

“My childhood nickname is Minnie … because my mom always said, _‘She’s as quiet as a mouse.’_ ” You timidly trailed off. “Minnie — so fucking cute.” Bucky gushes, as he nuzzles his nose against yours, caressing his face against your cheek. You shy by trying to hide your face in his neck. “My little Minnie.” His husky voice fanned warmth upon your face, tingling you like a shiver; molding himself against your figure, as he kissed you slowly but passionately.

God, you just — just — “I love you.” You whispered against his lips — those three words, easily slips from your swollen lips. You hazy eyes snap open, your heart beating wildly against the cage of your chest like a Cherokee drum, blood rushing to your ears. Bucky’s crystal blue hues widen, even brightened; taking his silence as rejection, you begin flailing out of bed. Run. Run as fast as you can, away from him. But as last, Bucky snaps out of his trance, and gently wrestles your limbs to pin you down with his one good arm. How easily he got you down, even with his flesh arm still flexes with trained muscle memory.

Low chants of _‘stop stop stop stop’_ , the sheets ruffling underneath your bodies, his baby blues flooded with emotion — watery. Panicking, your chest heaves with anxiety, closing your eyes shut tight; “Look at me. Baby —” Bucky whines pitifully, “— look at me.” Showering you with kisses, your forehead, your nose, your eyes, cheeks, chin and lips. Non-stop wispy kisses on your lips, in-between kisses Bucky pleads, “Minnie …” Bucky trails off, “My sweet Minnie mouse.” Laying more of his weight on your body, trapping you; feeling his breath on your face – you fall apart, your seams are finally tattered and loosened. How sweetly he spoke your nickname, with love dripping down his voice.

Sobs shatter out of you, opening your eyes to see Bucky sniveling, his blue hues flooded with emotion — watery at the faint pink rims. Holding back his tears, finally able to say what he wanted to say to you for months on end, “I love you too.” Your breath is stolen, hitched in your throat. “I fucking love you. God, I love you.” He keeps saying it, as if a holy hymn, his heart swelling in heavenly bliss. Silence — you are speechless, what can you say? He loves you … Bucky actually loves you. James Buchanan Barnes fucking loves you. Your God, your love.

“You love me?” A lone tear trickles down your cheek, but he catches by the pad of his thumb. “How could I not? I love the way you see the world, Y/n.” His voice thickens, sniffling. “I – I–” Your stuttering frightens him, making him ramble, “Don’t leave me. Please don’t. I’ll do anything. I’ll get on my knees.” Bucky keeps sputtering, you shush him, as his words trail into cries.

Bucky had shriveled back to the lonely boy he grew from, fearing that no one will ever love him — memories burning at the temples, hazy and weighing heavy with pain that felt like electricity upon his skull. He needs you, you’re all he has. His lover, his friend.

Collapsing in your arms, hiding his face in the crook of your neck, watering you as if you were a delicate flower. Shaking, shedding his skin — his vulnerability exposed and raw. You kissed his temple — a lingering kiss. You mumbled against his skin, “I’m not good for you. I’m —” Interrupting yourself, your face scrunched silently in pain, your throat tight. “I’m damaged goods.” You croaked. Bucky heaved his head up, his eyes sharp as daggers.

“So am I.” His voice clipped, and curt. Shaking your head frantically, “No, you don’t understand—” Bucky cuts you off, “No – I know what it is.” Bucky’s voice rises shakingly with anger — it was defensive. His nose is flaring, as his tresses curtain his cheeks.

“I know your tricks.” Narrowing slits stare hard.

“What fucking tricks? It’s the truth—” Your voice pitches higher, struggling under his gripping clutch.

“It’s not! I did this fucking song and dance all the time before I met you.” Bucky’s voice is thunderous, you flinch away, shutting him by your eyes. “Don’t shut me out.” Bucky cups your cheeks in his palms, directing your head facing his. Fluttering your lashes, sprinkling the wet drops away, in defeat you peer at him. “Who hurt you?” Bucky caresses the corner of your mouth with his thumb, pleading for the key to your heart. “Who hasn’t?” Your eyes were soulless, dull with defeat. “I know your pain. To give yourself over to someone just for them to spit right in your face.” Flashes of the past cloud your mind, of him. His lies, his kiss, his painful words, his mockery, and his backhanded slaps — you recoil at the memory.

“I —“ Bucky looks away, simmering rage boiling at the surface, his jaw clenching, deeply inhaling and exhaling. His gaze falls to his amputated stump, his breathing becoming choppy — he can still hear the explosion, the screams, the stench of blood, the excruciating pain. That horrible high-pitched femine laugh mocking him all over again.

“You’re the only one who has seen the real me.”

Inhaling deeply, gingerly you cup his stump, Bucky’s losing control of his breaths. Your palm lovingly fondles him. “I — I’m not ready to talk about it.” Bucky’s face softly contorts, closing his eyes fearing rejection all over again, it was akin to a scared toddler. Dainty fingertips skim fondly at his lips, “ — But —” Bucky’s doe eyes were too adorable, simple innocence; yearning for affection. “— When I’m ready, I’ll tell you.” A teary smile forms just a bit underneath your tips, kissing your fingers.

“I can do that.” A cheeky smile widens, playfully nibbles on your fingers — suckling. A unspoken promise - that everything will be okay. With expert precision, Bucky rolls on his back, with his one hand gripping on your arm, pulling you upon him — straddling him. His open hand holds your throat, molding perfectly, he can feel your thumping pulse. “Ride me, baby. Ride me till the fucking sun rises.”

You hoist yourself by the knees, fingers snatch and tug his hardening cock upright and ready to be worshipped between your wet cavern — presenting yourself to the altar of his body; ready to break apart upon his holy sacrament. Gliding downward on his shaft, moaning in unison, your heads tilting backward, relishing in your union. With a hard thrust, his hips push you upwards, jolting you — as his hand squeezes your throat. Tugging you downward by his hand, you kiss — it was fiery and passionate.

On his flight of wings, he carries you — united by souls, and sensuality.

And then he took you to heaven with him.


End file.
